


Fifty Shades Of Tomlinson

by HyFrLarry1224



Category: Fifty Shades of Grey (2015), Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal, BDSM, Blow Jobs, BoyxBoy, Dominant Louis, Fanfiction, M/M, Minor Violence, Submissive Harry, harrystyles, larry - Freeform, louistomlinson - Freeform, rim jobs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7230907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyFrLarry1224/pseuds/HyFrLarry1224
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When college senior Harry Styles steps in for his sick roommate to interview prominent businessman Louis Tomlinson for their campus paper, little does he realize the path his life will take. Louis, as enigmatic as he is rich and powerful, finds himself strangely drawn to Harry, and he to him. Though sexually inexperienced, Harry plunges headlong into an affair -- and learns that Louis' true sexual proclivities push the boundaries of pain and pleasure.</p><p>(All Credit goes to the original author of this story, E.L James. This is the same story, but a few things will be changed in it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! How are you all? Me and the other author for Unexpected Blessing decided to change Fifty Shades Of Grey and make it a Larry Stylinson one. While this one is the same story, I will be writing my own version of this story and posting it soon. But, in the meantime, here is this one!!
> 
> Much Love XX

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair – it just won’t behave, and damn Niall Horan for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, curly brown-haired boy with green eyes too big for his face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a bun and hope that I look semi presentable.  
Niall is my roommate, and he has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, he cannot attend the interview he’d arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I’m supposed to be working this afternoon, but no – today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown London in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Tomlinson Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious – much more precious than mine – but he has granted Niall an interview. A real coup, he tells me. Damn his extra-curricular activities.  
Niall is huddled on the couch in the living room.  
“Haz, I’m sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can’t blow this off. Please,” Niall begs me in his rasping, sore throat voice which sounds even worse due to his heavy accent. How does he do it? Even ill he looks handsome, dyed blonde hair in place and bright eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.  
“Of course I’ll go Ni. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?”  
“Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I’ll transcribe it all.”  
“I know nothing about him,” I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic.  
“The questions will see you through. Go. It’s a long drive. I don’t want you to be late.”  
“Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later.” I stare at him fondly. Only for you, Niall, would I do this.  
“I will. Good luck. And thanks Harry – as usual, you’re my lifesaver.”  
Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at him, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Niall talk me into this. But then Niall can talk anyone into anything. He’ll make an exceptional journalist. He’s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, stunning – and he’s my dearest, dearest friend.  
The roads are clear as I set off from Manchester, UK toward London and the I-5. It’s early, and I don’t have to be in London until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Niall’s lent me his sporty Mercedes CLK. I’m not sure Kevin, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.  
My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Tomlinson’s global enterprise. It’s a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect’s utilitarian fantasy, with Tomlinson House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It’s a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I’m not late as I walk into the enormous – and frankly intimidating – glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.  
Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She’s wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate.  
“I’m here to see Mr. Tomlinson. Harry Styles for Niall Horan.”  
“Excuse me one moment, Mr. Styles.” She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self-consciously before her. I am beginning to wish I’d borrowed one of Niall’s formal blazers rather than wear my navy blue jean jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one and only pair of black skinny jeans, my sensible black vans and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my curly hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn’t intimidate me.  
“Mr. Horan is expected. Please sign in here, Mr. Styles. You’ll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor.” She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.  
She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can’t help my smirk. Surely it’s obvious that I’m just visiting. I don’t fit in here at all. Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.  
The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I’m in another large lobby – again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I’m confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman dressed impeccably in black and white who rises to greet me.  
“Mr. Styles, could you wait here, please?” She points to a seated area of white leather chairs.  
Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the London skyline that looks out through the city toward the Tower Of London. It’s a stunning vista, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.  
I sit down, fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly cursing Niall for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this man I’m about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I’ve never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colossal glass and stone edifice.  
I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Styles. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Tomlinson is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.  
Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes? It’s like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up and look down at the blonde, the height difference being obvious.  
“Mr. Styles?” the latest blonde asks.  
“Yes,” I croak, and clear my throat. “Yes.” There, that sounded more confident.  
“Mr. Tomlinson will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?”  
“Oh please.” I struggle out of the jacket.  
“Have you been offered any refreshment?”  
“Um – no.” Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble?  
Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.  
“Would you like tea, coffee, water?” she asks, turning her attention back to me.  
“A glass of water. Thank you,” I murmur.  
“Taylor, please fetch Mr. Styles a glass of water.” Her voice is stern. Taylor scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.  
“My apologies, Mr. Styles, Taylor is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Tomlinson will be another five minutes.”  
Taylor returns with a glass of iced water.  
“Here you go, Mr. Styles.”  
“Thank you.”  
Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work.  
Perhaps Mr. Tomlinson insists on all his employees being blonde. I’m wondering idly if that’s legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive African-American man with short dreads exits. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes.  
He turns and says through the door. “Golf, this week, Tomlinson.”  
I don’t hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Taylor has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She’s more nervous than me!  
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” he says as he departs through the sliding door.  
“Mr. Tomlinson will see you now, Mr. Styles. Do go through,” Blonde Number Two says. I stand rather shakily, trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my satchel, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door.  
“You don’t need to knock – just go in.” She smiles kindly.  
I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office.  
Double crap – me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Tomlinson’s office, and gentle hands are around me helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow – he’s so young.  
“Mr. Horan.” He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I’m upright. “I’m Louis Tomlinson. Are you alright? Would you like to sit?”  
So young – and attractive, very attractive. He’s tall, though shorter than me, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly brown colored hair and intense, bright blue eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.  
“Um. Actually–” I mutter. If this guy is over thirty then I’m a monkey’s uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.  
“Mr. Horan is indisposed, so he sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Tomlinson.”  
“And you are?” His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it’s difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite.  
“Harry Styles. I’m studying English Literature with Ni, um… Niall… um… Mr. Horan at University Of Manchester.”  
“I see,” he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I’m not sure.  
“Would you like to sit?” He waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch.  
His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there’s a huge modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white – ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite – a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.  
“A local artist. Trouton,” says Tomlinson when he catches my gaze.  
“They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.  
“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Styles,” he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.  
Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Niall’s questions from my satchel. Next, I set up the mini-disc recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Tomlinson says nothing, waiting patiently – I hope – as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he’s watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he’s trying to suppress a smile.  
“Sorry,” I stutter. “I’m not used to this.”  
“Take all the time you need, Mr. Styles,” he says.  
“Do you mind if I record your answers?”  
“After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder – you ask me now?”  
I flush. He’s teasing me? I hope. I blink at him, unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. “No, I don’t mind.”  
“Did Niall, I mean, Mr. Horan, explain what the interview was for?”  
“Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year’s graduation ceremony.”  
Oh! This is news to me, and I’m temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much older than me – okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, mega successful, but still – is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.  
“Good,” I swallow nervously. “I have some questions, Mr. Tomlinson.” I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.  
“I thought you might,” he says, deadpan. He’s laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional.  
“You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?” I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.  
“Business is all about people, Mr. Styles, and I’m very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn’t, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well.” He pauses and fixes me with his icy blue stare. “My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it’s always down to good people.”  
“Maybe you’re just lucky.” This isn’t on Niall’s list – but he’s so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise.  
“I don’t subscribe to luck or chance, Mr. Styles. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said ‘the growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.’”  
“You sound like a control freak.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.  
“Oh, I exercise control in all things, Mr, Styles,” he says without a trace of humor in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again.  
Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming good-looks maybe? The way his eyes blaze at me? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip? I wish he’d stop doing that.  
“Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things,” he continues, his voice soft.  
“Do you feel that you have immense power?” Control Freak.  
“I employ over forty thousand people, Mr. Styles. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility – power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so.”  
My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of humility.  
“Don’t you have a board to answer to?” I ask, disgusted.  
“I own my company. I don’t have to answer to a board.” He raises an eyebrow at me. I flush. Of course, I would know this if I had done some research. But holy crap, he’s so arrogant. I change tack.  
“And do you have any interests outside your work?”  
“I have varied interests, Mr. Styles.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Very varied.” And for some reason, I’m confounded and heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked thought.  
“But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?”  
“Chill out?” He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. I stop breathing. He really is beautiful. No one should be this good-looking.  
“Well, to ‘chill out’ as you put it – I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits.” He shifts in his chair. “I’m a very wealthy man, Mr. Styles, and I have expensive and absorbing hobbies.”  
I glance quickly at Niall’s questions, wanting to get off this subject.  
“You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?” I ask. Why does he make me so uncomfortable?  
“I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?”  
“That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts.”  
His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at me.  
“Possibly. Though there are people who’d say I don’t have a heart.”  
“Why would they say that?”  
“Because they know me well.” His lip curls in a wry smile.  
“Would your friends say you’re easy to get to know?” And I regret the question as soon as I say it. It’s not on Niall’s list.  
“I’m a very private person, Mr. Styles. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don’t often give interviews,” he trails off.  
“Why did you agree to do this one?”  
“Because I’m a benefactor of the University, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn’t get Mr. Horan off my back. He badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity.”  
I know how tenacious Niall can be. That’s why I’m sitting here squirming uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze, when I should be studying for my exams.  
“You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?”  
“We can’t eat money, Mr. Styles, and there are too many people on this planet who don’t have enough to eat.”  
“That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world’s poor?”  
He shrugs, very non-committal.  
“It’s shrewd business,” he murmurs, though I think he’s being disingenuous. It doesn’t make sense – feeding the world’s poor? I can’t see the financial benefits of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I glance at the next question, confused by his attitude.  
“Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?”  
“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle – Carnegie’s: ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’ I’m very singular, driven. I like control – of myself and those around me.”  
“So you want to possess things?” You are a control freak.  
“I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do.”  
“You sound like the ultimate consumer.”  
“I am.” He smiles, but the smile doesn’t touch his eyes. Again this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can’t help thinking that we’re talking about something else, but I’m absolutely mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising or maybe it’s just me. I just want this interview to be over. Surely Niall has enough material now? I glance at the next question.  
“You were adopted. How far do you think that’s shaped the way you are?” Oh, this is personal. I stare at him, hoping he’s not offended. His brow furrows.  
“I have no way of knowing.”  
My interest is piqued.  
“How old were you when you were adopted?”  
“That’s a matter of public record, Mr. Styles.” His tone is stern. I flush, again. Crap. Yes of course – if I’d known I was doing this interview, I would have done some research. I move on quickly.  
“You’ve had to sacrifice a family life for your work.”  
“That’s not a question.” He’s terse.  
“Sorry.” I squirm, and he’s made me feel like an errant child. I try again. “Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?”  
“I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.”  
“Are you gay, Mr. Tomlinson?”  
He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Crap. Why didn’t I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out? How can I tell him I’m just reading the questions? Damn Niall and his curiosity!  
“Yes, Harry, I am.” He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased.  
“I apologize. It’s um… written here.” It’s the first time he’s said my name. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again. Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear.  
He cocks his head to one side.  
“These aren’t your own questions?”  
The blood drains from my head. Oh no.  
“Err… no. Niall – Mr. Horan – he compiled the questions.”  
“Are you colleagues on the student paper?” Oh crap. I have nothing to do with the student paper. It’s his extra-curricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame.  
“No. He’s my roommate.”  
He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his blue eyes appraising me.  
“Did you volunteer to do this interview?” he asks, his voice deadly quiet.  
Hang on, who’s supposed to be interviewing whom? His eyes burn into me, and I’m compelled to answer with the truth.  
“I was drafted. He’s not well.” My voice is weak and apologetic.  
“That explains a great deal.”  
There’s a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters.  
“Mr. Tomlinson, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.”  
“We’re not finished here, Ana. Please cancel my next meeting.”  
Ana hesitates, gaping at him. She’s appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Oh good. It’s not just me.  
“Very well, Mr. Tomlinson,” she mutters, then exits. He frowns, and turns his attention back to me.  
“Where were we, Mr. Styles?”  
Oh, we’re back to ‘Mr. Styles’ now.  
“Please don’t let me keep you from anything.”  
“I want to know about you. I think that’s only fair.” His blue eyes are alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where’s he going with this? He places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very… distracting. I swallow.  
“There’s not much to know,” I say, flushing again.  
“What are your plans after you graduate?”  
I shrug, thrown by his interest. Come to London with Niall, find a place, find a job. I haven’t really thought beyond my finals.  
“I haven’t made any plans, Mr. Tomlinson. I just need to get through my final exams.” Which I should be studying for now rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze.  
“We run an excellent internship program here,” he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job?  
“Oh. I’ll bear that in mind,” I murmur, completely confounded. “Though I’m not sure I’d fit in here.” Oh no. I’m musing out loud again.  
“Why do you say that?” He cocks his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.  
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” I’m uncoordinated, scruffy, and I’m not blonde.  
“Not to me,” he murmurs. His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What’s going on? I have to go – now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder.  
“Would you like me to show you around?” he asks.  
“I’m sure you’re far too busy, Mr. Tomlinson, and I do have a long drive.”  
“You’re driving back to UOM in Manchester?” He sounds surprised, anxious even. He glances out of the window. It’s begun to rain. “Well, you’d better drive carefully.” His tone is stern, authoritative. Why should he care? “Did you get everything you need?” he adds.  
“Yes sir,” I reply, packing the recorder into my satchel. His eyes narrow, speculatively.  
“Thank you for the interview, Mr. Tomlinson.”  
“The pleasure’s been all mine,” he says, polite as ever.  
As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand.  
“Until we meet again, Mr. Styles.” And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I’m not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, astounded that that odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves.  
“Mr. Tomlinson.” I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide.  
“Just ensuring you make it through the door, Mr. Styles.” He looks up at me, giving me a small smile. Obviously, he’s referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. I flush.  
“That’s very considerate, Mr. Tomlinson,” I snap, and his smile widens. I’m glad you find me entertaining, I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I’m surprised when he follows me out. Ana and Taylor both look up, equally surprised.  
“Did you have a coat?” Tomlinson asks.  
“Yes.” Taylor leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Tomlinson takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious and awkward, I crouch down a little and shrug it on. Tomlinson places his hands on my shoulders for a moment. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting – awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his. The doors open, and I hurry in desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he’s leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It’s distracting. His burning blue eyes gaze at me.  
“Harry,” he says as a farewell.  
“Louis,” I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, before you begin this chapter I thought I would hurry and explain something. I know that Desmond Styles is Harry's biological father, but to make everything in this story fit, I made it so Des is Harry's stepfather. I know it's a little confusing, but I didn't want to give Harry a different last name or change the story too much. Any who, I hope you all enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Much love XX

My heart is pounding. The elevator arrives on the first floor, and I scramble out as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once, but fortunately not sprawling on to the immaculate sandstone floor. I race for the wide glass doors, and I’m free in the bracing, cleansing, damp air of London. Raising my face, I welcome the cool refreshing rain. I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what’s left of my equilibrium.  
No man has ever affected me the way Louis Tomlinson has, and I cannot fathom why. Is it his looks? His civility? Wealth? Power? I don’t understand my irrational reaction. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. What in heaven’s name was that all about? Leaning against one of the steel pillars of the building, I valiantly attempt to calm down and gather my thoughts. I shake my head. Holy crap – what was that? My heart steadies to its regular rhythm, and I can breathe normally again. I head for the car.  
As I leave the city limits behind, I begin to feel foolish and embarrassed as I replay the interview in my mind. Surely, I’m over-reacting to something that’s imaginary. Okay, so he’s very attractive, confident, commanding, at ease with himself – but on the flip side, he’s arrogant, and for all his impeccable manners, he’s autocratic and cold. Well, on the surface. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. He may be arrogant, but then he has a right to be – he’s accomplished so much at such a young age. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but why should he? Again, I’m irritated that Niall didn’t give me a brief biography.  
While cruising along the I-5, my mind continues to wander. I’m truly perplexed as to what makes someone so driven to succeed. Some of his answers were so cryptic – as if he had a hidden agenda. And Niall’s questions – ugh! The adoption and asking him if he was gay! I shudder. I can’t believe I said that. Ground, swallow me up now! Every time I think of that question in the future, I will cringe with embarrassment. Damn Niall Horan!  
I check the speedometer. I’m driving more cautiously than I would on any other occasion. And I know it’s the memory of two penetrating blue eyes gazing at me, and a stern voice telling me to drive carefully. Shaking my head, I realize that Tomlinson’s more like a man double his age.  
Forget it, Harry, I scold myself. I decide that all in all, it’s been a very interesting experience, but I shouldn’t dwell on it. Put it behind you. I never have to see him again. I’m immediately cheered by the thought. I switch on the MP3 player and turn the volume up loud, sit back, and listen to thumping indie rock music as I press down on the accelerator. As I hit the 1-5, I realize I can drive as fast as I want.  
We live in a small community of duplex apartments in Manchester, England, close to the Manchester campus of UOM. I’m lucky – Niall’s parents bought the place for him, and I pay peanuts for rent. It’s been home for four years now. As I pull up outside, I know Niall is going to want a blow-by-blow account, and he is tenacious. Well, at least he has the mini-disc. Hopefully I won’t have to elaborate much beyond what was said during the interview.  
“Haz! You’re back.” Niall sits in our living area, surrounded by books. He’s clearly been studying for finals – though he’s still in his blue spongebob pajamas decorated with cute little seahorses, the ones he reserves for the aftermath of breaking up with boyfriends, for assorted illnesses, and for general moody depression. He bounds up to me and hugs me hard, burying his head in my chest for a brief second.  
“I was beginning to worry. I expected you back sooner.”  
“Oh, I thought I made good time considering the interview ran over.” I wave the mini-disc recorder at him.  
“Haz, thank you so much for doing this. I owe you, I know. How was it? What was he like?” Oh no – here we go, the Niall Horan Inquisition.  
I struggle to answer his question. What can I say?  
“I’m glad it’s over, and I don’t have to see him again. He was rather intimidating, you know.” I shrug. “He’s very focused, intense even – and young. Really young.”  
Niall gazes innocently at me. I frown at him.  
“Don’t you look so innocent. Why didn’t you give me a biography? He made me feel like such an idiot for skimping on basic research.” Niall clamps a hand to his mouth.  
“Jeez, Haz, I’m sorry – I didn’t think.”  
I huff.  
“Mostly he was courteous, formal, slightly stuffy – like he’s old before his time. He doesn’t talk like a man of twenty-something. How old is he anyway?”  
“Twenty-seven. Jeez, Harry, I’m sorry. I should have briefed you, but I was in such a panic. Let me have the mini-disc, and I’ll start transcribing the interview.”  
“You look better. Did you eat your soup?” I ask, keen to change the subject.  
“Yes, and it was delicious as usual. I’m feeling much better.” He smiles at me in gratitude. I check my watch.  
“I have to run. I can still make my shift at Carter’s.”  
“Harry, you’ll be exhausted.”  
“I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later.”  
I’ve worked at Carter’s since I started at UOM. It’s the largest independent hardware store in the area, and over the four years I’ve worked here, I’ve come to know a little bit about most everything we sell – although ironically, I’m crap at any DIY. I leave all that to my dad. I’m much more of a curl-up-with-a-book-in-a-comfy-chair-by-the-fire kind of guy. I’m glad I can make my shift as it gives me something to focus on that isn’t Louis Tomlinson. We’re busy – it’s the start of the summer season, and folks are redecorating their homes. Mrs. Carter is pleased to see me.  
“Harry! I thought you weren’t going to make it today.”  
“My appointment didn’t take as long as I thought. I can do a couple of hours.”  
“I’m real pleased to see you.”  
She sends me to the storeroom to start re-stocking shelves, and I’m soon absorbed in the task.  
When I arrive home later, Niall is wearing headphones and working on his laptop. His nose is still pink, but he has her teeth into a story, so she’s concentrating and typing furiously. I’m thoroughly drained – exhausted by the long drive, the grueling interview, and by being rushed off my feet at Carter’s. I slump on to the couch, thinking about the essay I have to finish and all the studying I haven’t done today because I was holed up with… him.  
“You’ve got some good stuff here, Harry. Well done. I can’t believe you didn’t take him up on his offer to show you around. He obviously wanted to spend more time with you.” He gives me a fleeting quizzical look.  
I flush, and my heart rate inexplicably increases. That wasn’t the reason, surely? He just wanted to show me around so I could see that he was lord of all he surveyed. I realize I’m biting my lip, and I hope Niall doesn’t notice. But he seems absorbed in his transcription.  
“I hear what you mean about formal. Did you take any notes?” he asks.  
“Um… no, I didn’t.”  
“That’s fine. I can still make a fine article with this. Shame we don’t have some original stills. Good-looking son of a bitch, isn’t he?”  
I flush.  
“I suppose so.” I try hard to sound disinterested, and I think I succeed.  
“Oh come on, Harry – even you can’t be immune to his looks.” He arches a perfect eyebrow at me.  
Crap! I distract him with flattery, always a good ploy.  
“You probably would have got a lot more out of him.”  
“I doubt that, Harry. Come on – he practically offered you a job. Given that I foisted this on you at the last minute, you did very well.” He glances up at me speculatively. I make a hasty retreat into the kitchen.  
“So what did you really think of him?” Damn, he’s inquisitive. Why can’t he just let this go? Think of something – quick.  
“He’s very driven, controlling, arrogant – scary really, but very charismatic. I can understand the fascination,” I add truthfully, as I peer round the door at him hoping this will shut him up once and for all.  
“You, fascinated by a man? That’s a first,” he snorts.  
I start gathering the makings of a sandwich so he can’t see my face.  
“Why did you want to know if he was gay? Incidentally, that was the most embarrassing question. I was mortified, and he was pissed to be asked too.” I scowl at the memory.  
“Whenever he’s in the society pages, he never has a date.”  
“It was embarrassing. The whole thing was embarrassing. I’m glad I’ll never have to lay eyes on him again.”  
“Oh, Harry, it can’t have been that bad. I think he sounds quite taken with you.”  
Taken with me? Now Niall’s being ridiculous.  
“Would you like a sandwich?”  
“Please.”  
We talk no more of Louis Tomlinson that evening, much to my relief. Once we’ve eaten, I’m able to sit at the dining table with Niall and, while he works on his article, I work on my essay on Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Damn, but that woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong century. By the time I finish, it’s midnight, and Niall has long since gone to bed. I make my way to my room, exhausted, but pleased that I’ve accomplished so much for a Monday.  
I curl up in my white iron bed, wrapping my mother’s quilt around me, close my eyes, and I’m instantly asleep. That night I dream of dark places, bleak white cold floors, and blue eyes.  
For the rest of the week, I throw myself into my studies and my job at Carter’s. Niall is busy too, compiling his last edition of his student magazine before he has to relinquish it to the new editor while also cramming for his finals. By Wednesday, he’s much better, and I no longer have to endure the sight of his blue-spongebob-with-too-many-seahorses PJs. I call my mom in Philadelphia to check on her, but also so she can wish me luck for my final exams. She proceeds to tell me about her latest venture into candle making – my mother is all about new business ventures. Fundamentally she’s bored and wants something to occupy her time, but she has the attention span of a goldfish. It’ll be something new next week. She worries me. I hope she hasn’t mortgaged the house to finance this latest scheme. And I hope that Robin – her relatively new but much older husband – is keeping an eye on her now that I’m no longer there. He does seem a lot more grounded than Husband Number Three.  
“How are things with you, Harry?”  
For a moment, I hesitate, and I have Mom’s full attention.  
“I’m fine.”  
“Harry? Have you met someone?” Wow… how does she do that? The excitement in her voice is palpable.  
“No, Mom, it’s nothing. You’ll be the first to know if I do.”  
“Harry, you really need to get out more, honey. You worry me.”  
“Mom, I’m fine. How’s Robin?” As ever, distraction is the best policy.  
Later that evening, I call Des, my stepdad, Mom’s Husband Number Two, the man I consider my father, and the man whose name I bear. It’s a brief conversation. In fact, it’s not so much a conversation as a one-sided series of grunts in response to my gentle coaxing. Des is not a talker. But he’s still alive, he’s still watching soccer on TV, and going bowling and fly-fishing or making furniture when he’s not. Des is a skilled carpenter and the reason I know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw. All seems well with him.  
Friday night, Niall and I are debating what to do with our evening – we want some time out from our studies, from our work, and from student newspapers – when the doorbell rings. Standing on our doorstep is my good friend Zayn, clutching a bottle of champagne.  
“Zayn! Great to see you!” I give him a quick hug. “Come in.”  
Zayn is the first person I met when I arrived at WSU, looking as lost and lonely as I did. We recognized a kindred spirit in each of us that day, and we’ve been friends ever since. Not only do we share a sense of humor, but we discovered that both Des and Yaser were in the same army unit together. As a result, our fathers have become firm friends too.  
Zayn is studying engineering and is the first in his family to make it to college. He’s pretty damn bright, but his real passion is photography. Zayn has a great eye for a good picture.  
“I have news.” He grins, his dark eyes twinkling.  
“Don’t tell me – you’ve managed not to get kicked out for another week,” I tease, and he scowls playfully at me.  
“The London Place Gallery is going to exhibit my photos next month.”  
“That’s amazing – congratulations!” Delighted for him, I hug him again. Niall beams at him too.  
“Way to go Zayn! I should put this in the paper. Nothing like last minute editorial changes on a Friday evening.” She grins.  
“Let’s celebrate. I want you to come to the opening.” Zayn looks intently at me. I flush. “Both of you, of course,” he adds, glancing nervously at Niall.  
Zayn and I are good friends, but I know deep down inside, he’d like to be more. He’s cute and funny, but he’s just not for me. He’s more like the brother I never had. Niall often teases me that I’m missing the need-a-boyfriend gene, but the truth is – I just haven’t met anyone who… well, whom I’m attracted to, even though part of me longs for those trembling knees, heart-in-my-mouth, butterflies-in-my-belly, sleepless nights.  
Sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. Perhaps I’ve spent too long in the company of my literary romantic heroes, and consequently my ideals and expectations are far too high. But in reality, nobody’s ever made me feel like that.  
Until very recently, the unwelcome, still small voice of my subconscious whispers. NO! I banish the thought immediately. I am not going there, not after that painful interview. Are you gay, Mr. Tomlinson? I wince at the memory. I know I’ve dreamt about him most nights since then, but that’s just to purge the awful experience from my system, surely?  
I watch Zayn open the bottle of champagne. He’s tall, and in his jeans and t-shirt he’s all shoulders and muscles, tanned skin, dark hair and burning dark eyes. Yes, Zayn’s pretty hot, but I think he’s finally getting the message: we’re just friends. The cork makes its loud pop, and Zayn looks up and smiles.

Saturday at the store is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Carter, Jenn and Patricia – the two other part-timers – and I are all rushed off our feet. But there’s a lull around lunchtime, and Mrs. Carter asks me to check on some orders while I’m sitting behind the counter at the till discreetly eating my bagel. I’m engrossed in the task, checking catalogue numbers against the items we need and the items we’ve ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I check the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance up… and find myself locked in the bold blue gaze of Louis Tomlinson who’s standing at the counter, staring at me intently.  
Heart failure.  
“Mr. Styles. What a pleasant surprise.” His gaze is unwavering and intense.  
Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here looking all tousled-hair and outdoorsy in his cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans, and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open, and I can’t locate my brain or my voice.  
“Mr. Tomlinson,” I whisper, because that’s all I can manage. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he’s enjoying some private joke.  
“I was in the area,” he says by way of explanation. “I need to stock up on a few things. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Styles.” His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel… or something.  
I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo, and for some reason I’m blushing furiously under his steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He’s not merely good-looking – he’s the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking, and he’s here. Here in Carter’s Hardware Store. Go figure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body.  
“Harry. My name’s Harry,” I mutter. “What can I help you with, Mr. Tomlinson?”  
He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and again it’s like he’s privy to some big secret. It is so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I’ve-worked-in-this-shop-for-years façade. I can do this.  
“There are a few items I need. To start with, I’d like some cable ties,” he murmurs, his blue eyes cool but amused.  
Cable ties?  
“We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?” I mutter, my voice soft and wavery. Get a grip, Styles. A slight frown mars Tomlinson’s rather lovely brow.  
“Please. Lead the way, Mr. Styles,” he says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I’m concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet – my long legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I’m so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning.  
“They’re in with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at him and regret it almost immediately. Damn, he’s handsome. I blush.  
“After you,” he murmurs, gesturing with his long-fingered, beautifully manicured hand.  
With my heart almost strangling me – because it’s in my throat trying to escape from my mouth – I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is he in Manchester? Why is he here at Carter’s? And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain – probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata where my subconscious dwells – comes the thought: he’s here to see you. No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me? The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.  
“Are you in Manchester on business?” I ask, and my voice is too high, like I’ve got my finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool Harry!  
“I was visiting the UOM farming division. I’m currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science,” he says matter-of-factly. See? Not here to find you at all, my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty. I flush at my foolish wayward thoughts.  
“All part of your feed-the-world plan?” I tease.  
“Something like that,” he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a half smile.  
He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Carter’s. What on Earth is he going to do with those? I cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all. His fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. He bends and selects a packet.  
“These will do,” he says with his oh-so-secret smile, and I blush.  
“Is there anything else?”  
“I’d like some masking tape.”  
Masking tape?  
“Are you redecorating?” The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires laborers or has staff to help him decorate?  
“No, not redecorating,” he says quickly then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he’s laughing at me.  
Am I that funny? Funny looking?  
“This way,” I murmur embarrassed. “Masking tape is in the decorating aisle.”  
I glance behind me as he follows.  
“Have you worked here long?” His voice is low, and he’s gazing at me, blue eyes concentrating hard. I blush even more brightly. Why the hell does he have this effect on me? I feel like I’m fourteen years old – gauche, as always, and out of place. Eyes front Styles!  
“Four years,” I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock.  
“I’ll take that one,” Tomlinson says softly, pointing to the wider tape, which I pass to him. Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I’ve touched an exposed wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it, all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium.  
“Anything else?” My voice is husky and breathy. His eyes widen slightly.  
“Some rope, I think.” His voice mirrors mine, husky.  
“This way.” I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and head for the aisle.  
“What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope… twine… cable cord… ” I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening. Holy cow.  
“I’ll take five yards of the natural filament rope please.”  
Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot blue gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious? Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with my knife.  
“Were you a Boy Scout?” he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don’t look at his mouth!  
“Organized, group activities aren’t really my thing, Mr. Tomlinson.”  
He arches a brow.  
“What is your thing, Harry?” he asks, his voice soft and his secret smile is back. I gaze at him unable to express myself. I’m on shifting tectonic plates. Try and be cool, Harry, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.  
“Books,” I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing! I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas above its station.  
“What kind of books?” He cocks his head to one side. Why is he so interested?  
“Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly.”  
He rubs his chin with his long index finger and thumb as he contemplates my answer. Or perhaps he’s just very bored and trying to hide it.  
“Anything else you need?” I have to get off this subject – those fingers on that face are so beguiling.  
“I don’t know. What else would you recommend?”  
What would I recommend? I don’t even know what you’re doing.  
“For a do-it-yourselfer?”  
He nods, blue eyes alive with wicked humor. I flush, and my eyes stray of their own accord to his snug jeans.  
“Coveralls,” I reply, and I know I’m no longer screening what’s coming out of my mouth.  
He raises an eyebrow, amused, yet again.  
“You wouldn’t want to ruin your clothing,” I gesture vaguely in the direction of his jeans.  
“I could always take them off.” He smirks.  
“Um.” I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of the communist manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.  
“I’ll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing,” he says dryly.  
I try and dismiss the unwelcome image of him without jeans.  
“Do you need anything else?” I squeak as I hand him the blue coveralls.  
He ignores my inquiry.  
“How’s the article coming along?”  
He’s finally asked me a normal question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double talk… a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if were a life raft, and I go for honesty.  
“I’m not writing it, Niall is. Mr. Horan. My roommate, he’s the writer. He’s very happy with it. He’s the editor of the magazine, and he was devastated that he couldn’t do the interview in person.” I feel like I’ve come up for air – at last, a normal topic of conversation. “His only concern is that he doesn’t have any original photographs of you.”  
Tomlinson raises an eyebrow.  
“What sort of photographs does he want?”  
Okay. I hadn’t factored in this response. I shake my head, because I just don’t know.  
“Well, I’m around. Tomorrow, perhaps… ” he trails off.  
“You’d be willing to attend a photo shoot?” My voice is squeaky again. Niall will be in seventh heaven if I can pull this off. And you might see him again tomorrow, that dark place at the base of my brain whispers seductively at me. I dismiss the thought – of all the silly, ridiculous…  
“Niall will be delighted – if we can find a photographer.” I’m so pleased, I smile at him broadly. His lips part, like he’s taking a sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction of a second, he looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position.  
Oh my. Louis Tomlinson’s lost look.  
“Let me know about tomorrow.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet. “My card. It has my cell number on it. You’ll need to call before ten in the morning.”  
“Okay.” I grin up at him. Niall is going to be thrilled.  
“HARRY!”  
Deacon has materialized at other the end of the aisle. He’s Mr. Crater’s youngest brother. I’d heard he was home from Chester, but I wasn’t expecting to see him today.  
“Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Tomlinson.” Tomlinson frowns as I turn away from him.  
Deacon has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that I’m having with the rich, powerful, awesomely off-the-scale attractive control-freak Tomlinson, it’s great to talk to someone who’s normal, someone who’s as tall as me. Deacon hugs me hard, taking me by surprise.  
“Harry, hi, it’s so good to see you!” he gushes.  
“Hello Deacon, how are you? You home for your brother’s birthday?”  
“Yep. You’re looking well, Harry, really well.” He grins as he examines me at arm’s length. Then he releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It’s good to see Deacon, but he’s always been over-familiar.  
When I glance up at Louis Tomlinson, he’s watching us like a hawk, his blue eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard impassive line. He’s changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else – someone cold and distant.  
“Deacon, I’m with a customer. Someone you should meet,” I say, trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Tomlinson’s eyes. I drag Deacon over to meet him, and they weigh each other up. The atmosphere is suddenly arctic.  
“Er, Deacon, this is Louis Tomlinson. Mr. Tomlinson, this is Deacon Carter. His brother owns the place.” And for some irrational reason, I feel I have to explain a bit more.  
“I’ve known Deacon ever since I’ve worked here, though we don’t see each other that often. He’s back from Chester where he’s studying business administration.” I’m babbling… Stop, now!  
“Mr. Carter.” Louis’ holds his hand out, his look unreadable.  
“Mr. Tomlinson,” Deacon returns his handshake. “Wait up – not the Louis Tomlinson? Of Tomlinson Enterprises Holdings?” Deacon goes from surly to awestruck in less than a nanosecond. Tomlinson gives him a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.  
“Wow – is there anything I can get you?”  
“Harry has it covered, Mr. Carter. He’s been very attentive.” His expression is impassive, but his words… it’s like he’s saying something else entirely. It’s baffling.  
“Cool,” Deacon responds. “Catch you later, Harry.”  
“Sure, Deacon.” I watch him disappear toward the stockroom. “Anything else, Mr. Tomlinson?”  
“Just these items.” His tone is clipped and cool. Damn… have I offended him? Taking a deep breath, I turn and head for the till. What is his problem?  
I ring up the rope, coveralls, masking tape, and cable ties at the till.  
“That will be forty-three dollars, please.” I glance up at Tomlinson, and I wish I hadn’t. He’s watching me closely, his blue eyes intense and smoky. It’s unnerving.  
“Would you like a bag?” I ask as I take his credit card.  
“Please, Harry.” His tongue caresses my name, and my heart once again is frantic. I can hardly breathe. Hurriedly, I place his purchases in a plastic carrier.  
“You’ll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?” He’s all business once more. I nod, rendered speechless yet again, and hand back his credit card.  
“Good. Until tomorrow perhaps.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “Oh – and Harry, I’m glad Mr. Horan couldn’t do the interview.” He smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the store, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder, leaving me a quivering mass of raging male hormones. I spend several minutes staring at the closed door through which he’s just left before I return to planet Earth.  
Okay – I like him. There, I’ve admitted it to myself. I cannot hide from my feelings anymore. I’ve never felt like this before. I find him attractive, very attractive. But it’s a lost cause, I know, and I sigh with bittersweet regret. It was just a coincidence, his coming here. But still, I can admire him from afar, surely? No harm can come of that. And if I find a photographer, I can do some serious admiring tomorrow. I bite my lip in anticipation and find myself grinning like a schoolgirl. I need to phone Niall and organize a photo-shoot.


End file.
